


After the Storm

by beamings



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (kind of), Angst, F/M, First Time, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, Reincarnation, Smut, bottom!Arthur, but a happy ending i promise, seriously a lot of ANGST, top!Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1915347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beamings/pseuds/beamings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin spends over a millennium waiting for his king</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Just, forgive everything about this fic. I was struggling through some severe writer's block, and I wrote this at 4am after watching sad videos. Non-betaed, and probably cringe worthy.

It wasn’t hard to find Merlin by the side of the lake.

After returning Gwaine’s body to Camelot, Percival set off towards the fabled land of Avalon, but before long, he didn’t need any more navigational guidance.

Perhaps 200 yards out from where the edge of the lake should be, Percival noticed that the trees were felled, or rather, they were conspicuously missing, the remaining stumps charred and the grass littered with dead leaves.  He continued trudging onwards until he saw the hunched figure by the water.

_Merlin._

It had to be him; there was no one else that should be out here.

Percival approached with caution, but his footfalls were not silenced by the terrain underfoot.

Merlin’s face was wrecked with tear stains when he looked up to identify the approaching man, telling everything and nothing, yet still silently asking about Gwaine, the last loose end.

Percival regretfully shook his head and sat down beside Merlin.  They sat in silence for a long time until one of them broke the silence with a wretched sob.  

Percival was surprised to find it was himself.  

Soon enough, Merlin’s tears had started to flow again, and he turned into the larger man, desperately clutching at the stained armor and gasping for breath.

And then Merlin quieted and looked up and decided to press his lips aggressively against Percival’s, which only made him cry more fervently.  He had failed to save him and was now trying with every effort to push life through Percival back into the body that had long since been taken by the mists.

How easy it would have been for Percival to give in to the hard press of flesh, the unbridled lust that poured out of Merlin, but he withdrew.  It was misplaced and undeserved, and would solve nothing in the following days of turmoil.

“Merlin,” Percival tried to console him, but Merlin just turned away and stalked back to their horses, not even waiting for Percival to rise before kicking the horse into a punishing pace towards Camelot.

Merlin didn’t cry again for the next two weeks, his body arid and empty, unable to feel or do.  

He stood in silent respect as Guinevere was crowned and the cries of “Long live the queen” rose up.  She tried to corner him later, but Merlin pushed away her attempts, only allowing for a loose and unreciprocated embrace.

Something within him told him that he owed her more, as she had lost him too.  But really, did she lose as much as Merlin?  She couldn’t have done anything about it; she was no more responsible than the cook in Camelot; she was there on his final night.  Most of all, she lost her husband, yes, and her king--her princely, chivalrous golden boy.  Merlin lost every bit of him.  He lost the unreserved smiles when he’d had too much to drink, the fond touches that he let slip during council meetings, the words whispered in Merlin’s ear under the cover of nightfall.  He lost the pain and the anguish of trying to follow in his father’s footsteps, the emotions he never let show.  Every single fibre of him had belonged to Merlin, and it was gone.

On the eve of two weeks since his death, Merlin stumbled half-asleep from his cot in Gaius’ chambers to the still empty room.  Not a single possession had been moved.  The boots Merlin still had to mend lay folded on the ground at the foot of the bed, and a goblet still sat on the table, remnants of cider swirling at the bottom.

Dazedly, Merlin pulled back the covers as he had so often done before for someone else and slid into the bed.

The sheets were cold like his body when Merlin had magicked off the boat, but the pillow still smelled of his lavender soap and musky sweat, but no matter how long Merlin closed his eyes or how dearly he wished, he couldn’t bring back the man he loved, not even in his feverish imagination.

Gaius  found him there in the morning, still wide awake and lying on a pillow damp with tears that no longer smelled of the king of Camelot.

Merlin screamed and struck out at Gaius when he tried to persuade Merlin to come back to his quarters, so Gaius left and shut the door, instructing any guards in the corridor to stay clear of the room.

Sometime during the day, Merlin roused and left the chambers, taking the key and locking the door behind him.  He trudged down the familiar path to the dungeons and was taken aback at the emptiness of the dragon’s caverns.

Shaking it off, he continued on right up to the very edge of the precarious ledge and looked into the abyss.

There would be no dragon to grasp him should he fall--or jump--and no one to sing his stories over the kingdoms.  He teetered on the edge and then leaped back, breathing heavily as he landed on his arse.  

Before turning to leave the room, Merlin reached into the folds of the neckerchief he wasn’t currently wearing and brought out the sigil.  With a last caress of the ingrained design, he flung it into the emptiness with slight grunt and promptly returned to Gaius’ chambers.

He never tossed away the key, instead slipping it on a leather cord that he wore around his neck, hidden beneath shirts and jackets, away from the prying eyes of well-intentioned friends.  Many months later, he walked into Gaius’ chambers to find them empty except for Gwen sitting on the worn wooden workbench.  Wordlessly she beckoned him closer and grasped his hand, pressing something cool and metallic into it.

“He loved you too,” she said, and then left.

Merlin clenched his fingers tightly, not daring to open them, even when his fingernails began to make angry half-moon marks in his pale flesh.  Slowly, unbelievingly, he relinquished his clutch, and in his palm sat the ring that he always wore.  

_Ygraine’s ring._

The ring that should have gone to Gwen on their wedding night.  

Merlin threaded the ring onto the leather cord with the key, hands trembling, breathing out a shaky exhalation as the metals clinked together, and he placed the loop back over his head, relishing the heavy weight of the trinkets where they landed against his breast, over his heart.

Gwen ruled fairly and without prejudice and gently reintroduced magic to the land, as had been his plan before.  She offered the position of court sorcerer to Merlin, but he’d had more than enough of life in the noble ranks of Camelot and declined.

Eventually Gwen remarried, seeing it necessary to continue the line of Camelot, if not that of Pendragon, since they had not conceived before.  

Leon had been the one to pick up the pieces left behind by his king, and he dutifully took his place beside his queen and wife, though never seeking to act as Camelot’s king.  That place was always reserved.

Thankfully, the court was soon vibrant again with small feet and giggling laughter.  Merlin made time to entertain young Vivienne with plenty of childish magic tricks, and when little Tom was born, the knights made sure to inform him of all of his predecessors’ antics and accomplishments alike.

Gaius passed first, as expected, and Merlin cried for the first time since those days following the battle at Camlann.  Gaius had stubbornly resisted Merlin’s pleas to ignore his healing studies and had never sought out another apprentice, so Merlin filled the spot of physician after his death.

It wasn’t until Gwen passed and Tom came to the throne that Merlin realised his immortality.  He had aged, yes, but there was no weariness in his bones that the others sometimes complained of, and he felt as able to climb the ladder to reach the very top of his bookshelves as he had when he first arrived in Camelot.

While magic was accepted in Camelot, and in the greater majority of Albion itself, Merlin understood the inability to live forever within the confines of the citadel walls, so he packed his meager belongings and set off for Avalon.  

He somewhat masochistically built a small cottage on the opposing shore, where the tower was forever in sight and filled it with books and writings and observations, so much so that he eventually had to build an antechamber just to contain all the collections from his life.

Once, Merlin called up a canoe from the small island in the middle of the lake, but when he stepped foot on the wood, the boat sunk completely and then vanished, leaving Merlin sprawled in knee-deep muddy water.

He didn’t try again to cross the lake, the magic of the place and his own communicating to tell him that it was forbidden to him; he was not allowed to pass.

One day, he felt a stirring in the pit of his stomach, and the words of the dragon tongue called to him, slipping easily from his lips.

He stood outside waiting as the Great Dragon landed in the clearing.

“I was beginning to wonder when you would call for me, young warlock.”

“I’m not so young now,” corrected Merlin.

“You may feel remorse at the whiteness of your beard, but you are young yet for the span of the lifetimes you will see, Emrys.”

“Must you always speak in riddles?”

“I see you have never learned to decode them.”

Merlin attempted a laugh.

“I have come to say my final goodbyes, Emrys.  Magic has leaked out of this land ever slowly.  Those who once practiced it have passed by this place and gone, and so now is it my time as well.”

“Magic can’t be gone!  I’m still here!”

“You will never lose your magic, Emrys.  But even you must admit that it has subsided substantially over the decades.  You feel it only as a secondary sense, like that of hunger, do you not?”

Kilgharrah was right.  Slowly, without even allowing the opportunity for notice, magic had calmed itself within Merlin.  It no longer itched beneath his skin with impatience, waiting to be released.  Instead it had curled up someplace between his ribs, behind his heart, whispering softly to him the songs of the earth and the wind.

“Thank you, old friend,” Merlin conceded.  “You have aided me dutifully.”

“And you me, Emrys.  I yearn for the days when Albion’s king returns and restores this kingdom to her greatness.”

Merlin couldn’t speak the assenting words he longed to let out, and he watched with misty eyes as Kilgharrah disappeared behind the tower.

Decades passed, civilizations rose and fell, and all the while, the little cottage in the clearing by the lake remained untouched.  It was not until technology and steel began to cover the earth that Merlin felt it necessary to act.

Merlin was certain of his return during the first world war.  He sat by the water’s edge from dawn till dusk, not eating, not sleeping, only watching the tower across the lake, his eyes growing weary but staying open by will alone.

Several times he thought it sure he saw a flicker of light in the distance, felt magic creeping up in anticipation, but it was merely the lack of nourishment and exhaustion that brought the hopeful hallucinations to mind.

The war ended with disastrous casualties on all sides, and Merlin was scarred with a jagged hole that the wishing had left in him.

Suffice it to say, Merlin did not stay completely secluded.  Though Kilgharrah was correct in that his magic would not leave him, he couldn’t survive on it alone, and ventured out into the village weekly for his groceries, news, and other basic needs.  He became somewhat of a fixture in the town, but eventually it would grow too long a period of time, and Merlin would have to seclude himself in his cottage until a new generation came along, so as to not arouse suspicion.  

He might have even ventured to call some people friends--the grocer who always worked the Tuesday shift, or the paperboy that told him the information that hadn’t been printed.  But all these people too passed from his world, their lifetimes incomparable to all Merlin had seen.

No one had crossed into the clearing, save some misguided hunters, for centuries, Merlin made sure of it.  Legends grew of the crumbling tower on the small island, and many tried to chronicle the life of Camelot and its famous king, but they were all humorously misinformed.

When the second world war rose up around him, Merlin didn’t waste time waiting by the shore.  Instead, he used his magic to revert to his younger form, and he reveled at the feel of his wrinkled skin smoothing out, his hairline growing and darkening.  He joined the war effort with the rest of the village boys, and they marched out in their issued uniforms.

Merlin was reckless, but never touched by the shrapnel or bullets.  If Albion’s need was not at its greatest now, he reckoned it never would be.

His fearlessness and apparent skill on the battlefield got him moved around many times, and in one squad he met Peter.  Instantly and unbidden, Peter’s presence brought up images of Will and Ealdor, and Merlin’s magic latched on to the boy as fervently as Merlin himself tried to push him away to protect himself.  

In the end, Merlin protected Peter at the cost of his own safety, taking a bullet in his calf as he pushed Peter out of the way of an oncoming barrage of artillery.  

They treated him well in the infirmary, and Merlin was reminded of Gwen as the nurses moved competently and considerately among the injured, but the care was unnecessary, for even as he lay bleeding on the musty cot, Merlin’s magic had begun to knit the wound.

The nurses were stymied by Merlin’s rapid recovery, and under the cover of night, he slipped out from the tent and returned to his cottage, glad to be greeted by the silence of his books and the familiar smell of the cyprus walls.

Decades passed and Merlin again decided to partake in the modern world.  He attended university and studied to become a physician, marvelling at the sciences they employed.

Unsurprisingly he took to the task quite readily, charming both patients and nurses with a quirk of his lips and an earnest encouragement.

The entirety of all of his lifetimes Merlin had been called to help others, and he was finally able to fulfill it rather successfully.  

Many men and women alike tried to woo him, and Merlin conceded to some of their affections, but with reservations.  They all drew away, claiming him to be emotionally cut off and “in need of a fucking therapist.”  They assumed it had something to do with war, but Merlin never told them.  How could he tell anyone that he was born eons before them and would live for eons after they died?

He couldn’t, of course, so he didn’t.  

The desires of the flesh were more easily satisfied than those of the heart, and he gave into them after so many years of solitude.  

A gentle press of lips here, the drag of a cock there, and it was almost possible to forget the sadness, until his magic roared up within him as he rose to the edge of his pleasure and seared images of the ancient Camelot into his brain.

Sometimes he took to wearing Ygraine’s ring on his left hand, sparing him the tentative dance of courting, but it became heavy as he wore it, slowing his motions and distracting him every time his glance fell on the glinting metal.

With the outbreak of AIDS, Merlin found the job of being a physician harrowing and insurmountable.  He used his magic when he could, but there was no combatting the vicious virus.  

The first time Merlin lost a patient, Michael, with whom he shared his shift, found him in the corner of the break room, murmuring “not again” and clutching the leather cord that he still wore.

It had been a young man, probably only in his early 40s.  His family refused to visit him, saying he deserved to die for his perverted sins, and Merlin had sat with the man until he drew his last breath, his lungs drowning in fluid from the pneumonia that eventually overtook him.

That day, Merlin turned in his resignation papers to the hospital and retreated to the cottage, to Avalon, and to what little peace he could ensure and control.

Merlin didn’t venture into modern life again until the 21st century, having reverted to his previous ways of living, only biking to the village to obtain necessary sustenance.  He hadn’t bothered with maintaining the appearance of youth anymore, the magic too draining and unnecessary.

He had seen the rise of Albion, and as it became the United Kingdom, then watched as the sun set on Britain’s empire to become the nation it was currently.  He had made his mark on the world long ago, history books now recounting the tales of the grizzled and becloaked warlock, and he was finally done.

He was determined Albion would never see the return of her king, so he flung himself with fervor into the new interests of the world.  He wanted to learn to cook, and all the technology that existed was mostly foreign to him, but no one seemed to take an old man seriously, thinking him homeless or not worth the time; thus, Merlin again adopted his youthful appearance and kept it up, finding it better to wake up every morning without looking into a face that showed all the years he felt.

That day, Merlin woke up before the sun had risen over the misty horizon past the tower.  His bones creaked as he stretched himself to his full lanky height, yawning contentedly, not tired, but unusually satisfied from the night’s sleep.

He performed his normal morning toiletries and packed a few belongings in a small leather bag, planning to visit the park at a more hospitable hour.

The curiosity of the people was a fickle thing, yet the old, crumbling tower in the middle of the lake had drawn tourists and natives alike to marvel at its splendor and wonder at the legends it inspired.

Eventually, after a few too many calls to the police due to drunken dares or pure inquisitiveness, a park was created--The Avalon Park.  The trees that Merlin had decimated in his anger and grief had long since grown back, and the area flourished in various shades of green during the summer, and a cacophony of reds and yellows burst to life in autumn, drawing people everywhere to the park.  

Voluminous bushes just barely hid an unsightly chain link fence, but as Merlin walked from the cottage to the entrance, he could feel the reemergence of his magic.  It was alive in a way that he had not felt in a very long time, pressing at his nerve ends and heightening his senses.  As he passed the bushes, he spared a bit of time to push his magic out to the budding flowers, coaxing them into showing their petals, and Merlin beamed with the exercise of his ability.

By the time he reached his normal spot, Merlin had left a trail of blooming flowers in his wake, and there was an unfamiliar bounce in his step.

He pulled the blanket out of his bag and spread it under the shade of the ancient oak tree, settling himself against its roots and pulling out his novel.

It was one he’d read many times before, so he let his attention wander as he flipped the pages, eyes skipping from the words to the landscape in front of him.

It was a rather cold spring day, and threats of an afternoon storm had kept many from visiting the park.  Normally vibrant and full of life, only the odd walker passed by Merlin as he sat for hours against the trunk of his tree.

Finally, as the sun began to set, after-dinner parties were entering through the park gates, having bypassed the earlier rain showers.  Couples walked alongside the water, hand in hand, eye to eye, and Merlin packed his things and trekked back to his cottage.

A day of thinking had filled Merlin’s heads with words and phrases, so he spent the remainder of the day jotting them down before he fell contentedly into bed.

The next morning followed similarly to the previous, as Merlin once again watched the sun rise over the horizon, filling the sky with crisp colors and dimensions.  Sitting down to eat his breakfast, Merlin watched as birds flitted over the lake, occasionally dipping down to pluck a fish from beneath the surface of the water.  

Merlin whistled a tune under his breath as he washed his dish, something catchy from the 20th century that he couldn’t exactly place, when something flickered in the corner of his eye.  Thinking it to be a bird, he didn’t investigate, but the movement persisted, so he finally looked up.

A figure stood calf-deep on the shore of the lake, still shadowed by the rising sun.

Merlin prepared his magic and his phone, not wanting to call the police, but willing to do so if he had to use force to get this nutjob out of the park.

The man stared fixedly at the crumbling tower, majestic in its tranquility, his hands clenched tightly by his side.

Two steps past his door, Merlin stopped with a rigid jolt.

White linen draped across broad shoulders; golden hair shone with the light of the new sun.  Merlin knew the lines and angles of the man who stood before him, yet refused to believe it.

“Arthur,” he barely whispered, not daring to be hopeful should the figure be a hallucination, a feverish dream.  

Having not spoken the name in over a millennium, the word tumbled in his mouth, strange but not unfamiliar.

Suddenly the door to Merlin’s cottage slammed and the figure turned.  Merlin had let go of the protective wards in his haste, and there was nothing to stop his being seen.  Even so, as the man turned, Merlin fought an insistent urge to close his eyes, to retreat to his bed and wake from this torturous dream.

“Merlin!”  The familiar voice slid between the space and filled Merlin’s ears and chest.

This time Merlin really did close his eyes, tears squeezing past his shut lids unbidden.

“Merlin?”  The voice, his voice, sounded again, more questioning now.

He looked up to see a crooked grin, inquisitive eyes, and the vivacity of his king, finally.

Merlin surged forward, tripping over his numb feet in his haste, stumbling into the outstretched arms and plastering his face into the warm neck, muttering over and over, “Arthur, Arthur,” making up for centuries of disuse.

All the while strong arms encircled him and held him tight, as if just by willing it so, Arthur could force their bodies into one entity.

It was minutes before Merlin was aware of the tears falling on his shoulder and he pulled back sheepishly.

“Hello,” Arthur murmured, grinning fondly.

“A thousand years and all you have to say is hello?  You never even properly said goodbye, just your lousy speech of thanks and mmph.”

Merlin was cut off mid-rant by Arthur’s mouth, hot and needy and more than a bit clumsy.

“You haven’t changed.”

“You asked me not to.”

“I’m assuming you have some place to live and you don’t just sit by the lake all day, scaring off the citizens?” Arthur asked.

“Yes, I do,” retorted Merlin, motioning to the fairly obvious cottage behind him.  “But I’m not sure if you can come in.  The pixies might not like you if you keep insulting me.”

Arthur looked up from his current dazed glance at Merlin’s lips in worried confusion, as if small creatures were truly hiding behind the bushes.

“Come on, dollophead,” Merlin laughed as Arthur frowned at the word, distracted by Merlin pulling his arm towards the cabin.

They fell onto Merlin’s small bed in a flurry of kisses, each one longer and more lingering than the previous.  These were less frantic than their first, as they took the time to savour the press of flesh, the slick slide of tongues, the rough bite of questing teeth.

“Small bed,” mused Arthur between placing kisses along Merlin’s jaw.  
“Never needed the space,” replied Merlin distractedly.

“Never?”

Arthur stopped his ministrations to peer at Merlin, who flushed quite brilliantly at the implication.  

Finding the answer to his unspoken question, Arthur let out a small growl and flipped them, grinding his hips into Merlin’s, pausing as he felt the combined pressure of their erections.

“Have you…” Merlin grasped for words.

Arthur shook his head minutely, the shame clearly evident on his face, but Merlin’s eyes widened with lust.

Soon enough they both lay naked on the bed, already agreed upon to be too small, and “will be fixed immediately after you, oh!”

Merlin had found that Arthur’s nipples were extremely sensitive and took great care with paying them plenty of attention before Arthur tugged at his hair, insisting him to “fucking get on with it already.”

At that, Merlin had gotten up to search for lube and found it stashed behind a can of beans.  When he returned to the bed, Arthur had started giggling like a fool until Merlin kissed the smile off of him.

Slowly, tentatively, Merlin reached a slicked finger behind to pad at Arthur’s entrance.  The first finger slipped in rather easily, and Merlin crooked his finger to get Arthur wiggling his hips impatiently.  Merlin watched carefully as the tip of his second finger popped past Arthur’s rim.  He was silent, but with a grim determination, and Arthur nodded at him to continue, jaw set.

Finally, neither of them could bear the build up and Merlin moved to turn Arthur onto his stomach, but Arthur’s hand shot out and grasped Merlin’s wrist.

“No,” he panted.  “Want to see you.”

Warily, Merlin obliged and steeled his body for the slow push into Arthur’s body, eyes tightly shut, fighting the urge to thrust in completely.  When he opened them again he was fully seated, and Arthur had tears streaming down his face.

“Oh shit,” exclaimed Merlin, and started to pull out, but Arthur’s leg reached around and cemented him.

“No, no.  I’m… sorry.”  Arthur’s words were broken.  His erection had flagged with the pain, but was quickly filling with blood again as Merlin slowly circled his hips.

“Should’ve told you then.”

Merlin’s heart was pounding loudly in his chest and he wondered how it had any blood left, but he was afraid for Arthur’s next words.  Quickly he leaned down and smothered Arthur with a searing kiss, but Arthur still restrained.  

Arthur took one of his hands from where it had been clenching the sheets and brought it up to Merlin’s face.  His fingers threaded into the hair at the base of his neck and his thumb stroked Merlin’s cheekbone wonderingly.

“I love you.”

With that, Arthur surged up to meet Merlin’s thrust.

“Always have, always will.”

Arthur’s words snuck out between open-mouthed, barely-there kisses as he wrapped a hand around his own cock.  Merlin replaced it with his own and within moments they were coming synchronously.

Later, after Merlin had retrieved a cloth and cleaned both of them, he lay curled around Arthur, ear pressed to his bare chest so that he might hear the strong beats of his heart.

“Why does Albion need me now?” asked Arthur in a whisper, carding his fingers through Merlin’s hair.

“I don’t know,” Merlin mused.  “Actually, I don’t care.   _I_ need you.”  He pressed himself even closer to Arthur, twining their legs possessively.

Arthur fell asleep shortly, lost in a post-orgasmic bliss, but Merlin was curiously restless.  He let his gaze trace the lines of Arthur’s face and the thought struck him.

“I love you too.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for making it through this and letting me dump all these words on you! I just want my boys to be happy for once. Comments are much appreciated! (:


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